


The third wheel

by Elisexyz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, plus some of the dean/jack/sam dynamic, s13 spoilers, there's some sam/dean brotherly scenes in the background, you can see drowley as you prefer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 00:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12642402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Out of all people that he could hallucinate, Dean can’t help wondering, why did it have to beCrowley?Or the one in which grief throws Dean a curve ball and in the end he’s not really sure if it helps or it’s making things way worse.





	The third wheel

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Writer's block is always lots of fun. I'm glad it's over. ~~At least for now~~.  
>  Now, I've wanted to write something about Dean and Crowley for a while, because it's one of my favourite ships (yes, I love rarepairs, alright?) and Crowley's death _hurt me_. The idea was to make it more strictly about Dean mourning Crowley, but I also wanted to not wander too far from the canonical Drowley dynamic, so it became more about Dean grieving _in general_.  
>  So you have Dean hallucinating Crowley, being frustrated with Jack, being frustrated with Sam, being frustrated with "Crowley" and just trying to ~~not~~ deal with everything that's happened.  
>  I think I've still put more of an accent on Dean mourning Crowley than Cas and Mary, which I hope makes sense considering that it's him that he's hallucinating. Also, there are more mixed feelings involved I think. And this accent on their relationship is why I put the fic in the Drowley tags in the end. I didn't necessarly give a shippy tone to the whole thing I think, not from Dean's part at least, ~~because Crowley is so in love even in canon, fight me~~ , but I think my inner multishipper started bleeding all over the place, so it can be kinda slash if you squint.  
>  This takes into account canon up until 13x02.  
>  Enjoy, you can find me as [heytheredeann](http://heytheredeann.tumblr.com) on Tumblr if you want.

Dean’s hand slips under the pillow while his eyes are still closed. He’s barely aware of what’s going on around him right now, but he knows that there’s someone in the room watching him, and it’s not Sam. Is Sam okay? He wonders if it’s just Jack being a creep and once again smacking him in the face with the irony of a behaviour that sometimes reminds him a lot of Cas.

Cas, who’s gone because of him – _it_ , Jack’s a _it_ –, alongside with Mom, alongside with Crowley. Just three more people to add to the list of those who were executed for standing too close to them.

Dean breathes in some air through his nostrils, and in a second he’s on his feet, pointing the angel blade at-

“Crowley?” he blinks.

“Is that any way of greeting your favourite demon?” Crowley smirks, raising his eyebrows. Dean remembers quite clearly his body falling on the ground, the light ‘Bye, boys’ as a last acknowledgement, and _yet_ Crowley’s there and- a wave of relief washes through Dean, because _someone_ is still there, they are not completely alone, he can still count on someone, he still has Crowley to call if he needs help. A smile makes his way onto his lips, but it dies way too soon, because _then_ comes the anger and the betrayal, because _where_ the fuck has he been, _why_ did he let them believe they were all _dead_ , why is he okay and not Cas, not Mom, and why wasn’t he _helping_ with the Devil’s son, why did he just disappear like that-

Before he knows it, he’s yelling at the top of his lungs, insulting Crowley for not showing up sooner, for letting them believe that he had died for them, for lying, for showing up in his room in the middle of the night as if it was all okay and no harm had been done-

“Dean,” Sam breathes, standing at the door, his eyes wide and a blade in his right hand. Jack’s followed him, he’s peering into the room warily from behind Sam, and Dean hates him too, he wants him to disappear too, because he’s a problem and a danger and the only reason why they are alone right now is that they didn’t kill him when he had yet to be born.

“Why are you yelling?” Sam asks.

“Don’t you see him?!” Dean blurts out, gesturing at Crowley, who’s staring at him and who hasn’t said a word through his whole out-burst.

Sam’s eyes follow his hands for a brief second, then he’s looking at Dean, his features twisted in concern. “There’s nobody here,” he says, slowly. “Just us.”

Dean blinks. His eyes go to Crowley, and he’s still there. He’s shrugging, as if Sam announcing that he can’t see him was no big deal. Fuck, Dean hasn’t drunk _that_ much before going to bed. Surely not enough to hallucinate _Crowley_.

He sets his jaw. “Must have been a nightmare,” he mumbles, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from Crowley.

“Jack, bud, everything’s fine here, you can- go back to bed, alright?” Sam says, and Dean’s glad that the kid is out of his hair, but Sam’s coming into his room and that’s- not what he needs. Usually, his brother’s presence will help to some degree, whether he likes it or not, but right now he needs to be left alone with- Crowley, or whatever he’s dealing with. He needs to figure out if he’s finally gone crazy or if that’s some sort of spirit that only he can see. Which is all kinds of ridiculous, since demons don’t have any souls and why the hell would that hypothetical soul appear only to _him_ anyway?

“I’m fine, Sam,” he lies, sitting back on his bed. “Just go back to sleep.”

“I can stay here for a while,” Sam offers. “Or you could come to my room and watch some TV.”

“I just want to go back to sleep, alright?” Dean replies, probably a bit harshly. Sam raises his eyebrows, but he nods and he doesn’t press the issue any further. Thank God for small mercies.

Actually, no, fuck God, or Chuck, or whatever he likes to be called these days, because Dean’s sick and tired of that bastard leaving them to clean up his messes.

“Call if you need anything,” Sam says, before walking out. He doesn’t close the door all the way, so Dean gets up, stubbornly staring at his toes, and quietly closes it. He keeps giving his back to the room for a couple of seconds, breathing in some air, trying to be calm and collected and to put himself in the right frame of mind to deal with this as he would any other spirit or whatever, before finally turning.

“Alright-” he begins, ready to look at whatever that thing is the eyes, but it’s gone. The room’s empty. Dean blinks. He stands still, half-expecting to see Crowley appear again any moment. He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he finally moves towards his bed and thinks that maybe it was really just a nightmare after all.

 

 

-

“It was my understanding that humans required at least a couple of hours of sleep per day. Don’t you?”

Dean jumps on his seat, his head snapping up as he automatically grabs the bottle harder, pulling it up like some kind of weapon. Which, obviously, just ends with him accidentally throwing alcohol all over the place. Not that he particularly cares right now, since there’s Crowley staring at him with his eyebrows raised, sitting at the other end of the table as if it was completely _normal_.

Dean sets his jaw and slowly puts the bottle down, his eyes fixed on- whatever that is. Dean’s drunk. He knows it. Not black-out drunk, not I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing drunk either – can he even get to that point by now? – and he’s pretty sure that that stuff is not good enough to make him see dead people. And if it _was_ , it surely wouldn’t be Crowley he’d been seeing.

“Somebody ate your tongue, squirrel?” Crowley teases, and Dean just stares, because the way in which he curls his lips is just _right_ , the way in which his eyes seem to be smirking teasingly at him is very _Crowley_ and he’s desperately looking for a detail, for something wrong and off about him, except for the fact that he’s there in the first place.

But is that even a _fact?_ Really, he shouldn’t rule out the option of having gone mad for good. Quite surprising that it didn’t happen sooner.

Dean’s sinking his fingernails into his palm and it hurts, it grounds him, but Crowley’s still _there_ , sitting just in the right position, looking at him just in the right way.

“What the hell are you?” Dean finally growls. A shapeshifter? But then why couldn’t Sam see him? A ghost? Again, ghosts don’t have favourites. And a ghost requires a soul, which Crowley doesn’t have. Didn’t have.

Crowley shrugs. “King of Hell? Your beloved partner in crime? We are a little bit beyond introductions, Dean.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Dean hisses, and he can feel the bile raising in his throat, because whoever this is it is _not_ funny, whatever’s happening is just reminding him that they don’t have anyone left anymore, that their family just keeps _dying_ \- Crowley himself in the past used that particular information, that body count on their shoulders, against them. It’s ironic that he ended up on the list. Dean never thought he’d kill Crowley that way.

“Is it so hard to believe that I came back from the grave?” Crowley asks, raising his eyebrow.

“It wouldn’t, if Sam could see you too,” Dean replies.

“Maybe I came back just for you,” Crowley shrugs. Dean inhales. It takes half a second of thinking and in his blurred head it sounds more than reasonable: he’s on his feet before he knows it, and he’s attempting to punch Crowley in the nose. He hits thin air. He can still see Crowley. He’s looking at him as if there was something _funny_ in all this.

“Shit,” Dean sighs, rubbing his face with his right hand and stumbling back to his chair. Shit, he’s truly gone mad in the end. He needs more alcohol.

 

When Sam finds him in the morning, Crowley’s gone. Sam doesn’t fuss too much over him, which is good, and Dean can even manage to convince himself that what he saw was just an alcohol-induced hallucination.

 

 

-

The lies he told himself don’t quite hold up when he’s sober, coming back from a trip to the supermarket, and he sees Crowley’s shape among the people on the street. He automatically stops on his tracks for a second, just long enough to realize what he’s doing and shake his head before deciding to just keep walking.

He finds Crowley leaning against his car.

Dean stops and stares. Shit, shit, shit.

“You know, this arrangement would be less difficult if you just stepped out of denial for a change,” Crowley comments, quite annoyed.

“What arrangement?” Dean growls. The parking lot is desert and he’s already gone mad, hasn’t he? Can’t sink lower, what’s the harm in talking to the fucking hallucination?

“The one in which I follow you around and knock some sense into you,” Crowley kindly explains, and at that Dean barks a humourless laugh.

“Yeah, sure,” he says. “Because _you_ are such a believable conscience.” He has the keys into his hand. He swallows, walking towards the car, his eyes fleeing from Crowley as he walks around Baby to get into the driver seat. “You know,” Dean says, before he can stop himself. “If I needed any help, I would hallucinate Cas, or Mom.”

He quickly gets into the car and shuts the door. Crowley is sitting next to him. “Apparently not,” he simply points out. “Also, is that any way of talking to the guy who stabbed himself to death to give you boys a fighting chance?” Dean stays silent. “ _I_ think I deserve at the very least a toast.”

Dean swallows and starts the engine, his eyes fixed on the road. “I did one,” he whispers. There’s a knot in his stomach and somewhere in his head his father reminds him that he’s not supposed to drive when he’s not in the right frame of mind, but that’s one order he has stopped following a very long time ago.

“You know, maybe there’s a reason why people are so eager to die for you,” Crowley points out, when they’re pulling up in the garage.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, drily, his eyes fixed in front of him. “It’s because I’m some kind of twisted disease.”

 

 

-

Jack hasn’t been causing as many problems as Dean would want him to.

I mean, it’s not like he wants him to kill someone or stuff like that, but it’s easier to remember how dangerous it is to trust him – _it_ , dammit – when it’s accidentally blowing up lamps or throwing people against the wall because it’s upset and it can’t control itself.

Jack looks like nothing more than a scared kid, and he seems to have imprinted on Dean in some weird way: it goes around imitating him, mimicking his actions, as if it was trying to gain Dean’s approval, as if it was trying to get him to stop thinking that it’s a bomb that could blow up in their faces any second.

Dean has to keep thinking like that. Sam’s bleeding heart is _dangerous_. For Sam himself first and foremost, because if it ever comes the day in which Jack will turn against them, Sam won’t let him go dark without trying to pull him back. And pulling someone back from the edge more often than not means offering yourself as a human sacrifice, coming forward with open arms and saying: “I’m not scared of you, I believe in you.”

Part of Dean hopes that Sam’s right and that that day will never come. But shades of grey have proven to be extremely dangerous in the past, and Dean has no real reason to trust Jack. Yet. Hopefully there’s a yet somewhere in there. But as for now, Dean’s not going to let Sam blindly offer himself to Satan’s son. He’s not losing him too.

“Overthinking is not good for the soul,” Crowley comments, lying on his bed next to him as if it was _normal_. The first time he did it, Dean jumped right off. Now, he just deals with it, it’s not like Crowley is even _real_ , after all.

“And what would you know about souls?” Dean grunts, keeping his eyes fixed on the paper, even if he hasn’t been actually reading for a while. It’s just that he still can’t quite believe that not only he is hallucinating Crowley, but he’s also _talking_ to him. He feels stupid, talking to his head. But Crowley acts so much like himself that it’s not that difficult to forget that he’s just a fragment of Dean’s imagination, and he can’t talk to Sam right now, because they are both pushing it all down, they are going on as if nothing happened and Dean’s kinda relieved but also kinda pissed at them both, especially considering that almost every conversation they have ends up being a debate about Jack.

“I used to run a place _full_ of souls,” Crowley points out. “Before I became a martyr for your cause, that is.”

Dean does his best to ignore the remark.

“Managing a place in which souls get tortured 24/7 doesn’t make you an expert on how they work in general,” he points out. “You would need a soul of your own to get some stuff. Which you don’t have.”

“I had enough of a soul that I sacrificed myself for-”

“Will you _stop_ that?!” Dean interrupts him, finally putting down the newspaper and turning towards Crowley. He’s inadvertently raised his voice, and he’s quick to level it down to not alarm Sam. “What is this, some kind of punishment? I think I’m already quite miserable as it is, what the hell do you want?”

Crowley’s smile is soft, and that’s kind of weird. “I’m you, darling,” he points out.

“Then just go away,” Dean growls, but it comes out more pleading than angry.

Crowley sighs, and he looks a little sad. For him. Which means that Dean’s feeling sorry for himself, which is just _great_.

“I’ve already told you once, nobody hates you more than you do,” Crowley says.

Dean scoffs softly, rolling his eyes. “Still not helping, Crowley,” he says. His name tastes bitter, because he’s dead, just like everybody else, and that’s _not_ Crowley, it’s all in his head. He could be talking to Abraham Lincoln right now for all the difference that it makes. He feels lonely.

“ _Point being_ ,” fake-Crowley continues. “I think it’s safe to assume that I, the _real_ me, don’t hate you that much either.”

Dean looks at him, at his eye-roll and slightly frustrated features, he listens to the patronizing edge in his voice, and he picks up on the underlying not-really-hateful message in there, and it’s all so fucking _realistic_ and Crowley-like that it makes him awfully mad.

“You’re _dead_ ,” he blurts out, his eyes burning. “You are _all_ dead, and it’s because of me, it’s _always_ because of me, it doesn’t fucking matter what you all think of me, because you are _dead_.”

He jumps out of his bed, his vision blurred by the tears for a second, before he can blink them away. They’re all dead and it’s his fault. What else is fucking new?

“I’m going to Sam,” he lets out, and he doesn’t know why he’s excusing himself as if Crowley was anything but a sick trick of his mind.

 

Sam doesn’t comment on it when Dean gets into his room looking as if that truck full of dead bodies hit him a second time, just harder. He just asks if Dean wants to talk about it, but when he shakes his head Sam just makes a little room for him on his bed. They lie side by side, pressed together just like when they were kids and they watched cartoons on the same bed in a random motel room, Dad sitting at a table and doing research that Dean didn’t yet understand at the time. He swallows, shifting a inch closer, his arms crossed and his eyes on the TV as if he gave a damn about the movie in there. He’s not alone, as long as he’s got Sam he can and he _will_ keep going.

 

 

-

“I _told_ you-” Dean is growling, his voice breaking in anger, his hands red with Sam’s blood.

“I’m sorry,” Jack is repeating for the millionth time. Dean can’t ignore it anymore.

“Shut the hell up,” Dean hisses, turning around to glare at him icily.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam protests, but his voice is thin and he looks confused, he’s _hurt_ \- Dean keeps pressing the cloth against his head, quickly checking for other injuries besides the one on his head.

“He didn’t mean to,” Sam insists.

Yeah, sure, the poor thing was just having a nightmare, Dean _gets_ it, poor Satan’s son can’t control itself, and that’s exactly the problem, because it could have killed Sam, if the library just hadn’t held up things could have ended so much _worse_ -

“ _It_ never means to,” Dean hisses, angrily, pushing back the fear, the horror at the thought that Sam could have died, right there, simply for checking on the little monster in his belief that he’s all human and innocent-

Jack’s gone. Dean quickly gives a look over his shoulder, because he doesn’t trust giving Jack his back for too long, especially not in that emotional turmoil that he is right now, and Jack’s not there anymore. Dean curses between his teeth. He swears, if he teleported who knows where again and he ends up hurting someone else-

“We need to look for him,” Sam immediately says, as soon as he notices what Dean’s been looking at.

“Shut up,” Dean replies. “Follow my finger,” he orders, moving his index finger in front of Sam’s face.

“Come on, I don’t have-”

“You are bleeding, and the sooner we get this over with the sooner I can run after your little pet monster,” Dean cuts him off.

“He’s not my pet monster, and he didn’t mean to hurt me, you know that,” Sam protests once again, but he does comply and he follows his finger without any difficulties.

“I’ll make sure to tell that to your grave if he ends up killing you next time,” Dean mumbles bitterly, checking Sam’s pupils next. Normal. Good.

“Dean,” Sam calls, his voice soft. Dean avoids looking at him in the eye. “I’m okay.”

“You got lucky,” Dean replies. “Nausea? Dizziness? Blurred vision?”

“No, no and no,” Sam assures. “Please, let’s just look for him, alright? He’s confused and scared, we can’t leave him alone.”

“ _I’m_ looking for the kid,” Dean corrects him. “ _You_ are sitting tight and waiting for us to come back.”

Sam sets his jaw unhappily. “Don’t be harsh,” he orders.

“Sure, why would I be harsh with the thing that just threw you across a room?” Dean mumbles, rolling his eyes and standing up.

“He’s just a kid, and he’s gonna be beating himself up about it. Don’t make it worse, alright? If anything, to avoid any further damage.”

Dean exhales, shaking his head slightly.

 

“You took quite a big scare,” Crowley comments, helpfully, as Dean quickly checks the rooms in the bunker, half-hoping that the kid will be there, sulking on a bed or something.

“Shut up, Crowley,” Dean growls.

“Shut up,” Crowley imitates him, in a deep voice. Without meaning to, Dean stops on his tracks, the echo of that night in the forest, when Crowley, after saving Cas – what good had it done anyway, since they had ruined it already? –, had decided to help them save the girl of the week.

“Don’t do that,” Dean threatens, feeling anger burning in his chest, because this isn’t _right_ , this is not _real_ and right now Dean doesn’t want to pretend that it is, he doesn’t have it in him to just let that hallucination tease him as if it was all normal, as if he hadn’t gotten them all killed and right now they were all searching the bunker to find the missing Nephilim.

“Just lightening up the mood a bit,” Crowley shrugs, unimpressed by his reaction. Dean wants to punch him. He goes back to searching.

 

Since Jack is not in any of the rooms, Dean decides to take a good look at the whole bunker before going out and throwing an Hail Mary. He checks in with Sam, who at the very least seems to be doing okay and who fortunately agrees to just go to his room and rest while he searches.

Crowley follows him around the whole time, making snarky comments and generally being a pain in his ass. Dean’s edgy and frustrated because the kid is nowhere to be found, and he snaps at Crowley a couple of times, but there are also moments in which he just shakes his head at the shit he’s saying, an half-smile of amusement mixed with resignation twisting his lips before he remembers that it’s all fake. Then he gets angry again.

 

He finds Jack in the dungeon. Which, admittedly, he finds kind of fitting.

“Hey,” he calls out, probably not too gently, all things considered. Jack is sitting on the ground, hugging his legs like a scared child. Dean’s stomach turns unpleasantly, a little out of guilt, a little out of anger at Jack, who just won’t let him be wary in _peace_.

“Do me a favour and get back upstairs, alright?” Dean says. Jack just stares at him, and Dean can smell the guilt and shame from there. It’s difficult not to see a kid there. He wishes the son-of-Satan package came with horns or something. “Sam’s alright,” he adds. “He’s not mad at you.”

“You are,” Jack replies. “I am too. I didn’t want to hurt him, I swear.”

Dean inhales. “I know,” he says. Because he does. It just doesn’t matter that much, not when Sam might not be just as lucky the next time.

“But you don’t care,” Jack states. Dean wishes that he didn’t look so _sad_ and _human_ in his resignation.

“It’s just that not many people who hurt my brother live to tell the tale,” Dean says.

Jack bows his head slightly. “But you can’t kill me,” he states. Dean stays silent. “What does it say about me? That I can’t control myself, not even around my friends? I don’t want to hurt you guys.”

Dean swallows. “Look,” he sighs. “Sometimes- stuff happens. And you deal with it. Today you made a mistake, and we all got lucky that Sam’s okay, which means that you’ll have to make pretty damn sure that there’s no next time.”

“So now you think I can learn to control it?” Jack asks, hopeful.

Dean’s hand goes to his forearm as a reflex, where the Mark of Cain used to be. “Not really. I kind of hope so.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll kill me,” Jack states. He says it with simplicity, as if it didn’t concern him at all.

“Damn straight,” Dean replies, pushing down the uneasiness.

Jack stands up and stares at him. “I think I’m okay with it,” he says. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Good,” Dean says, briefly. “Let’s go to Sam then so that he can give you a sappy talk or something.”

Jack walks past him and turns his back on him as if it was no big deal, as if Dean hadn’t just promised to kill him if push came to shove. That kid – that _thing_ – just makes it so damn hard to remember where he’s supposed to stand, to remember that he should just stop dancing in shades of grey and gambling with people’s lives.

Thankfully, he has Crowley to remind him of all the lives that he’s already lost in the game.

“Hey, squirrel, remember when we ran away together, right here? You were pretty blood-thirsty at the time,” Crowley saying. Dean does remember the First Blade and the thirst for blood and the confusion, all which just brought him to the only possible outcome: _get help, call Crowley, what the hell is going on_.

He gives a quick look at the dungeon before turning off the lights.

 

 

-

“What’s bothering your pretty head?” Crowley asks, leaning back on a chair. Dean just wishes that he could clean up the damn kitchen in peace.

“Aren’t you supposed to be _in_ my head?” he snaps, glaring at the former King of Hell before going back to his task.

“I thought you liked pretending that that wasn’t the case,” Crowley replies.

Dean is not sure if he does. He stares at his own hands, putting more effort than necessary into cleaning, trying not to think too much, even if it’s next to impossible. Cas is gone. Mom’s gone. Crowley is haunting his ass in some twisted form. He wants to laugh at the irony, because he lost his best friend, his mother – again, and again, for both of them – and _yet_ the one that his mind supplies is the weird frenemy who kept saving their ass and who would probably be the easiest to pretend to have still around, since they only called when they needed something from each other.

Mom and Cas, on the other hand…

“Oh, come on, I’m hurt,” Crowley complains. “I thought you loved me too.”

“We’re not friends, Crowley,” Dean replies, almost as a reflex.

“Are you _still_ going to pretend that you would have killed me someday? Come on,” Crowley scoffs. Dean doesn’t turn to look at him, he just keeps cleaning.

“Surely planned to,” he lies. He doesn’t know why he bothers with the lie. Sure, there was some vague idea that sooner or later Crowley was probably going to betray them all, as soon as their interests were no longer aligned, and then he would have finally killed him, the way he was supposed to, but that idea just kept fading in the background as they kept saving each other over and over again, as Crowley kept getting through for them, for some reason. There have been moments in which the idea, the suspicion that Crowley wasn’t to be trusted, resurfaced, but overall- Dean can’t say that he was sure that he would kill him someday anymore.

“I seriously doubt it, darling,” Crowley comments, cheerfully.

Dean should have seen it coming. He’s thought about this himself. He just- somehow, he _doesn’t_ see it coming. “Even if you did end up killing me, somehow. Oh, the irony,” Crowley adds.

Dean swallows, the air knocked out of his lungs for a few seconds. He can’t help it: he stops what he’s doing and turns, only to find Crowley smirking slightly, as if he was looking at a fond memory instead of reminding him that he _killed_ him.

“I thought you didn’t hate me,” Dean says, darkly.

“ _I_ , as in real me, actually don’t. _You_ , on other hand…” Crowley scoffs ironically, still smirking slightly. It’s not fucking funny.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Dean says, angrily. “I didn’t ask Cas to stay behind, I even tried to-” His voice breaks, but he’s quick to get a grip. “I didn’t ask Mom to save us, I didn’t ask for _any_ of it.”

“You just caused it,” Crowley states.

Dean wants to scream. His eyes burn and his stomach is twisting. His family’s gone and the only one who could help, the _bastard_ that was supposed to be responsible for the Devil and his spawn, since they are his son and grandson, has run away, _again_ , and in trying to fix it all Dean just got people killed. All of them. Only he and Sam came back from that fight. They always do.

“ _You_ were supposed to know better,” Dean snarls, angrily, because this was supposed to be the _one_ thing that he would never have on his shoulders, the _one_ ally that _wasn’t_ supposed to fall because he was too good at protecting his own ass. “What happened to you being a fucking selfish demon who looks out for himself first and foremost?!”

“You happened,” Crowley simply replies.

“Will you just _stop_?!” Dean screams, loud, probably way too loud. His vision is blurred and he doesn’t care, he just wants him to stop, he doesn’t want to be responsible for all that, and yet he is, he can’t go back, they are already gone.

Crowley sighs. “I already told you: there’s a reason why people are so eager to die for you. And obviously a part of you knows it.”

“Care to enlighten me?” Dean hisses.

“We just love you,” Crowley states. Dean blinks. “And we know you would do the exact same thing for us.”

Dean scoffs, but it’s a little forced. “Thanks for reminding me that you are not real,” he says. “And no, I highly doubt that I would have done it for you.”

Crowley raises his eyebrow questioningly. “You would do it for a _stranger_ ,” he points out. “That’s why I have to save your heroic ass so often.”

Before Dean can come up with a reply, there’re footsteps approaching.

“Dean?” Sam calls, letting himself into the kitchen. “I heard shouting, are you-?” When Sam’s voice dies in his throat, Dean realizes that a couple of tears have escaped during his confrontation with his own head. He’s quick to dry his face, especially when he notices that Jack is standing there too. Jesus Christ, the kid needs to stop following Sam around wherever he goes.

“Uh-oh, now Samantha is going to want to talk about _feelings_ too,” Crowley comments. Dean almost growls at him to shut up before he remembers that Sam’s in the room.

“Jack? Can you leave us alone, please?” Sam asks, with a gentle smile. Dean just awkwardly stands there, unsure of what to do with his arms as he physically feels the weight of everything falling back on his shoulders at full force.

“Dean,” Sam calls, as soon as they are alone, his eyes shining as he takes a couple of steps forward. “I think we should talk a little.”

“There’s not much to talk about, Sammy,” Dean says, shrugging helplessly. He can feel his lips twisting into a tired smile, even if there’s nothing to be happy about. “They’re all gone. And I’m losing it, because I see _Crowley_.”

“You- what?” Sam frowns, tilting his head slightly.

Dean gives another shrug. “He’s sitting there, making faces,” he points, and Sam even turns to check. He sees nothing, it’s obvious.

“It’s- It’s just grief, Dean,” Sam finally tries to reassure him. “I’ll pass.”

“Will it?” Dean raises his eyebrows. “Come on, Sam, we both know it won’t. Maybe someday I’ll stop seeing Crowley, but- Kevin, Charlie, Benny, Bobby, even _Dad_ , even if it’s been _ages_ \- they all still hurt like Hell.”

“I know,” Sam says, softly. “I’m sorry.”

Dean nods. “Me too.”

It’s Sam who initiates the hug, making himself small to fit into Dean’s arms like he used to. Dean holds tight onto him, because there’s not much he has left, is there?

“Crowley still there?” Sam asks, as they pull apart.

Dean briefly checks. “No,” he replies. “He just… comes and goes.”

Sam nods. It takes a couple of seconds for him to come up with a reply. “I’m sure it’s just temporary. This, at least.”

Dean nods. He inhales deeply and he can’t help scoffing a little. “You know, in the end I am not all that happy that I killed him.”

“Dean, you _didn’t_ kill him,” Sam immediately replies, and it’s so fucking _nice_ to not be talking to himself about this anymore. “He _chose_ to give us a chance.”

Dean shrugs. “I just think it’s ironic.”

Sam sighs. “I think he’s quite happy of the way he went out, you know,” he points out.

Dean swallows. “Good for him,” he mumbles. “I miss them. Mom and Cas.”

“Me too,” Sam replies. They stay silent for a couple of seconds, until Sam adds: “Come on, I’ll help you out here.”

Dean smiles slightly.

 

 

-

“I’m sorry,” Dean mumbles, over a bottle of whisky.

Crowley is staring at him, sitting at the other end of the table. “What for?” he asks, casually. “I mean, there _is_ a lot that you owe me apologies for, I actually keep a list, so if you would just enlighten me on what point you chose to address…”

“Asshole,” Dean mumbles, taking another sip. The words are pushing against his throat, demanding to be let out, and Dean knows that it’s _stupid_ , that this isn’t Crowley and that he’s talking to himself, but- he needs to say it. “I’m sorry about you dying, alright? You probably think I don’t give a crap, but I’m really not happy about it.” Actually, it’s more than that, it kinda sucks.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, again, as if it could make it more likely for the words to reach the actual Crowley. They were never _friends_ , but there was something there and-

“Bromance,” Crowley supplies, solemnly. “The word you are looking for is ‘bromance’.”

Dean shakes his head. “I ain’t your friend and I sure as hell ain’t your brother,” he mumbles. “But I don’t want you dead,” he adds, after a couple of seconds, because he feels like it’s important to say it, he feels like he _needs_ to say it. “I’d bring you back too if I could.”

“Oh, Dean,” Crowley smirks, with exaggerated sweetness in his voice. “That’s probably the nicest thing you ever said to me.”

“I know,” Dean whispers. He takes another sip, his eyes drifting away from Crowley. He doesn’t feel better, not one bit. Can’t say he’s surprised.


End file.
